


Mrs. A. and Mrs. B.

by panfremas



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/F, Lesbian Sex, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Masturbation, My First Work in This Fandom, Orgasm, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Multiple, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23652736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panfremas/pseuds/panfremas
Summary: Sadie Adler meets an amazing woman in a cabin in Roanoke Ridge, the widow Charlotte Balfour. She can't get her off her mind, and when a fever keeps her at Willard's Rest, she helps a fellow widowed woman to learn what's what. Told in alternating diary entries. Minor spoilers for chapters 5 and 6 of Red Dead 2.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, Cal Balfour/Charlotte Balfour, Jake Adler/Sadie Adler, Sadie Adler/Charlotte Balfour
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	1. Sadie Adler - September 2, 1899

**Author's Note:**

> First story on AO3 after having published on FFN in other fandoms under a different name in the past. First attempt at a Red Dead fic. This fic reimagines the saga of the Widow of Willard’s Rest, Charlotte Balfour, as if it were Sadie, and not Arthur, who encountered her. For that reason, there are extremely minor spoilers for the gang’s location in Chapter 6 and for the Charlotte Balfour stranger missions. It’s told from the perspective of alternating journal entries from Sadie and Charlotte, and as folks would do in their diaries, it uses initials for characters. Thanks for reading!

September 2, 1899, Beaver Hollow, N.H., foggy this morning after a cold, wet night; rainy afternoon —

I can’t get this woman off my mind, and I only met her for an hour. She reminds me so much of myself in some ways, and yet is completely different in others. She’s a widow, too, lives up north in Roanoke Ridge, in a cabin on a lake by the Brandywine Drop. 

Compared to me and Mr. A.’s old place up in Ambarino, it’s a paradise. She’s got woods full of critters, a good plot for a vegetable garden, and the cleanest water of the whole Kamassa River, before it fills with coal dust and who knows what else. And yet she’s still a mess. Ate her food reserves right after her husband died in a bear attack, nothing in the ground but flowers and no sense on how to find, let alone shoot, an animal. 

I came upon her doing some exploring from our new camp at Beaver Hollow. Dutch seems to think it’s no problem we’ve holed up in the heart of Murfree Country in one of their old haunts, but I ain’t getting killed by some inbred hillbilly, so I figured I’d take a look around. There isn’t much north of Annesburg, as the railroad climbs steep up into the Grizzlies. Trees and hills and some strange brick laboratory owned by some crackpot scientist out of Saint-Denis. 

And her, apparently; Mrs. B.

When I found her she was crying and thin as a rail, shaking in a thunderstorm over her husband’s grave, long dark hair plastered over her face with tears and rainwater.

She told me her story, and I helped her shoot and skin a rabbit. That should hold her for a few days at least. Told her she had better learn to use her husband’s rifle, or she’d never make it. As it was I had to shoot a few wolves who’d come up the property.

She’s from the city, her husband was too, a pair of rich folks born with silver spoons. They decided to come west and strike out on their own, tired of the material world. Funny how the only folks that’s tired of the material world are the ones with all the material.

Such a short interaction, and yet she preoccupies my thoughts.

I guess what I feel is jealousy, which seems unbecoming. But really! Rich bitch and her husband want to come play rancher in the big scary woods without an ounce of know-how between them. He’s stupid enough to get eaten by a bear, and she’s stubborn enough to stay and die, as if that’s somehow noble. 

I guess I felt that way, too. I’m jealous she has a grave to cry over, and I guess it makes me feel better to think her Mr. B. died of his own stupidity, like my Mr. A. was somehow noble to get offed by O’Driscoll’s boys. But I wasn’t no better. I barely moved till we got to Rhodes. I guess I’m jealous she could cry and grieve, and wasn’t surrounded by a gang of outlaws, conmen and whores the whole way.

I don’t quite mean that.

It’s not just jealousy, though. I also — and this intrigues me — feel useful and in charge. If I hadn’t stumbled upon her, she’d’ve died already. It made me feel good to shoot that rabbit for her, to kill them wolves, to see the look on her face knowing I’m the one who saved her, who knows more than her, who can show her what’s what. 

I feel dominant in a way I never do surrounded by a bunch of men who need to measure their own revolvers every other day with some fight or another. Control is a rare commodity for a woman, let alone a widow, and I know that. But it’s more than that.

Even just helping Mrs. B., I felt the rush I get when I shoot a gun and when the bullet strikes true. I felt the buzzing pride I felt when I got the gang back together at Lakay, or a lifetime ago, when I used to yoke a pair of oxen or break a horse at me and Mr. A.’s ranch. 

I felt the full-body ecstatic power I used to feel when I’d climb on top of Mr. A. and ride him, watching his face screw up as I held his wrists back against our headboard, and grinding my pebble against him, trying to come as his cock spasmed inside my cunt. I felt the intoxicating dominance I used to feel when I'd sit on his face and let him suck my pebble as my legs clamped around him, or when he’d let me put a finger up his ass and make him come instantly.

Those feelings startled me, though they’d been coming more and more in the past few weeks. It shouldn’t surprise me, I suppose. Before Mr. A. died, we were like rabbits, even before our wedding. And before that, once I started to blossom, I got more than a few halfhearted slaps when Ma would catch me red faced with my hands down my pants in the barn or the woodshed “self-polluting.”

I was numb for so long after Mr. A. died, but when the other feelings started to return, it was naive to this this one wouldn’t. I’ve never felt dirty doing it, despite Ma’s best efforts, but at first, when my cunt started dripping again, I almost felt like I was cheating on him. I should know better, of course. I know how much he liked to watch me do it, when I’d let him.

I started up again in the marshy woods near Shady Belle, thinking of Mr. A. I was real backed up then — the first time trying again, I came so hard I cried.

So it wasn’t too odd when, after I took my leave of the Mrs. B., I stopped in a spot in the woods, hitched up old Bob, found a comfortable enough tree to lean against, undid my belt, unbuttoned my pants and started fucking myself. What was a bit odd, and what has me thinking about this woman still, was that in my mind’s eye, I wasn’t riding Mr. A. I was riding Mrs. B.

In my fantasy, my pebble had grown into a cock and I was fucking her, sucking her big white tits with my mouth and reaching down between her legs to rub her the way Mr. A. used to rub me; the way I like to rub myself.

The fantasy was brief, if only because I came so quick. My imaginary cock shrank back into its special spot above my cunt as I opened my eyes, still rubbing it slowly as I caught my breath after coming.

But Mrs. B.’s face didn’t fade, and hasn’t yet. The ride brought thoughts of her with each step, and I found myself grinding into the saddle and hoping for bumps in the road.

I stopped once more on the way back to camp, finding another spot to fuck myself. I went slower this time, wanting the fantasy to progress. I imagined pulling out of her and pumping my cock at the end to spray Mrs. B. with my seed as, in reality, I came, quickly rubbing at my pebble and working two fingers in my cunt as it squeezed in fast rhythm.

I’ve been in a daze since meeting her, hitching Bob back at camp, grabbing some stew from P. and heading to my bedroll. It’s late now, and writing all this, I’m tempted to sneak down to the river and take care of myself again.

There’s a spot, out of view and earshot, that K. and A. use if one of them comes back from a trick in Annesburg and needs to finish herself off. Maybe one of them would be there too. Maybe I could pretend she’s Mrs. B. and climb on top and fuck her with my fingers.

It’d be fun, but I’m tired. I’m beginning to feel a headache coming on, all day really, but it’s getting worse, though I don’t know why. Maybe I got bitten by some skeeter down in the Lakay bayou.

Guess I’ll turn in now.

Must go check in on Mrs. B. tomorrow. Must see her.

Hope I’ll feel better in the morning.

Mrs. A.


	2. Charlotte Balfour, September 2, 1899

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte's entries, as a rule, are not going to be as smutty or as long and detailed as Sadie's, cause I don't think she'd be like that.

September 2, 1899, Willard’s Rest, N.H., cold and sunny, but thunderstorm all afternoon and evening —

Apologies for the delay since my last entry.

I met the most amazing woman today. I had given up, was ready to curl up and die on Mr. B.’s grave. Was wishing the storm would take me. She saved me — Mrs. A.

She’s a widow, too, but she knows so much more than I. She and her husband had a ranch up near Colter, in Ambarino — a place more remote than here, even. But somehow they scratched a living out of the cold hard soil up there. 

And here I am thinking I was special, somehow, that Mr. B. and I were trailblazers. How little I knew of this place and these people in the city. 

She got me a rabbit and had me skin it. I made a good, hearty stew. After weeks of crackers and canned beans, which had mostly run out, I’m saved by such a bounty.

I’m beginning to feel things again. I smiled at the sun this morning, and the rain brought my tears as much as the memory of Mr. B. did. 

I hesitate to put this next thought into ink, but I suppose I must…

I’m beginning to ache again, the way I ached for Mr. B., down below. I thought that had left me forever, and I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. Yesterday I took a cold swim in the lake to cool down from these thoughts. But the heat has returned to my womanhood…

I hope Mrs. A. returns. Lord knows I need more help, and she’s a saint to give it. I also yearn to hear the woman talk, to learn what lessons she has from her own widowhood. I must keep this aching under control — I shan’t look hysterical before her. She’s already seen me supplicated on Mr. B.’s grave. I must keep up some appearances.

It seems I’ve forgotten how to write these. The pen is inked but the words don’t come. Perhaps it is the inexplicable grief, or that I am out of practice. I promise I won’t go three weeks again without writing. Burying Mr. B. took all I had — no energy to write then. The fuzziness of my mind, an unwelcome side effect of this hysteria, is no help.

I hope to feel better tomorrow.

Mrs. B.


	3. Sadie Adler, September 3, 1899

September 3, 1899, Beaver Hollow, N.H., warmer this morning —

Morning: My hopes to feel better by morning are dashed. If anything, I feel worse. My mind is hazy and it seems I see only three yards ahead. Must see a doctor in Annesburg. I will try to make it to Mrs. B.’s today. She filled my dreams, and I woke up to my cunt dripping. May stop on the way if I improve, though I feel too sick for all that just now. Must see her. Will keep posted...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short one folks. As you'll learn in the next chapter, she didn't get to finish her entry.


	4. Charlotte Balfour, September 3, 1899

September 3, 1899, Willard’s Rest, N.H., warm —

Mrs. A. came here today, but she is not in a good way. She was showing me how to use Mr. B.’s old rifle, shooting bottles off of barrels on the porch, when she collapsed. She told me she’d had a headache, but seemed adamant that she come to visit me, which I appreciate. As it is, her riflery pointers may have become invaluable already. The last of the rabbit is gone, so I have to go out hunting, though I hate to leave Mrs. A. in her current state.

I managed to rouse her enough to stagger inside. She made it only as far as mine and Mr. B.’s bedroom. It was a struggle to keep her sitting up. I felt her and she was burning up. I fetched some water from the well and placed it in a cold compress on her forehead, but playing nurse is — no surprise — not my strongsuit. 

I strained to get her out of her clothes, by this point she was in a feverish stupor and unable to help. Everything she wears is heavy, and she hadn’t a hope of the fever breaking as long as she was so wrapped up. I was in for a surprise: after taking off her boots, as I unbuttoned her pants, it became clear that Mrs. A. wears nothing underneath! I contemplated stopping then, for her modesty’s sake, but her health trumps her modesty, so I continued. Her blouse betrayed a similar practice upstairs. Hear I thought I was a modern woman in the modern French style — brassieres and bloomers seemingly progress over the simple underskirt. But it seems the truly modern woman favors efficiency, and leaves herself free of such constraints altogether!

Once she was nude, I returned with a bowl of cold water and more cloths to wipe the sweat that had covered her entire body. She was mumbling inchorently but otherwise still, her eyes trying to avoid the light. Again, for whatever old reason, preoccupied with her modesty, I did her back first, before turning her onto her back to continue. There was no avoiding her breasts, the peaks of which hardened under my cloth. I dreaded but at length proceeded to her womanhood. It was hot, as the rest of her was, but it also glistened with liquid other than sweat.

Selfishly, I feel comforted to know that this happens to another woman, and another widowed one. Should I find the courage, I’ll ask her if the aching ever goes away. I was chaste before Mr. B. and I married. What’s the difficulty now?

She quivered as I washed her womanhood. I dealt with it quickly and moved on. 

As I got up to dump the water out, it struck me how beautiful a creature Mrs. A. is. She is muscled and tan in ways that city folk would find repulsive, and yet her body records every experience and trial she’s had as I do in this diary. The thick, honey-colored hair on her head is matched and then some by the forest of hair between her legs, as wild and untouched as she is yet somehow so much more beautiful than a less unkempt one. Her womanhood is pink and her folds complex and inviting. Her clitoris was hard and poked out like the prow of a beautiful, otherworldly ship. To see a woman like that, in ways I've never seen myself. What am I writing, diary! Enough of all that.

It's this: I envy that her body looks like it has worked, which perhaps is as silly as it sounds. I envy that her body has felt and experienced, or so it looks. I envy that she seems to know her body and have it under her domain. My body was never mine. It was my mother and father's, it was Mr. B.'s, and now, perhaps, it is Mrs. A.'s.

I dressed her in a pair of my bloomers and a camisole. My brassieres wouldn’t fit her anyhow. She’s thinner than I, and doesn’t have quite the bust, though her breasts are beautiful. Again with this! Oh, how I ache. My every thought turns to sex, and to Mrs. A.

Afterward, I took a dip in the lake outside in yet another vain attempt to dull my aching. I took one this morning, also, before Mrs. A. arrived. Unless I want to be swimming thrice a day, I must find a way to control these thoughts. Perhaps I'll need another before I leave.

Her fever seems to have broken, but I have more pressing matters if we aren’t both to perish.

I’m off hunting now — I’ve left Mrs. A. a note to that effect and as much food as I could spare. The rest is in my satchel. I hope to nab some nocturnal beasts this evening. I plan to go up into Ambarino where the hunting is better and the people scarce. I hope to return the day after tomorrow. I hope Mrs. A. will wait for me. 

Mrs. B.


	5. Note from Charlotte Balfour to Sadie Adler, September 3, 1899

Sadie -

I’ve gone hunting. I’ll return the day after tomorrow, and I hope you’ll stay. I hope you feel better, and I’ve left some food in the iron pot if you have an appetite. Close the lid tight, or the rats will get it. Forgive me for the immodesty of changing you, but I had to get you cleaned and cool and out of your heavy clothes. 

Yours,  
Charlotte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one... Going to leave you hanging on this one for a bit, as I've caught up to what I'd written already. Will continue with one more chapter from Sadie's journal, hopefully soon as it's about half-done, and some more after that to follow later.


	6. Sadie Adler, September 4, 1899

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long gap. I've always been a slow writer, so at least some things don't change during the current pandemic.

September 4, 1899, Willard’s Rest, N.H., cool —

I am beginning to feel better. My fever has apparently broken. I’ve read as much, in the diary of Mrs. B. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I awoke in bloomers and a camisole — fine, unfamiliar linens. My clothes were neatly folded on a chair at the bedside. I remember nothing of how I came to be here, but I’m glad I am. After a momentary embarrassment of realizing that Mrs. B. must have stripped me down, I am less angry than I thought I’d be. It made me hot, and I started to rub myself through the fancy, silken fabric. It felt real, real good on my pebble, but I didn’t know if I was alone, and I didn’t want to ruin her expensive things.

I got up and found a letter on the table, but the house was empty. Mrs. B. said she’d gone off hunting. She apologized for the immodesty of seeing my tits and cunt (my words). I wondered if they made her hot, seeing me exposed. I wondered if she went off and fucked herself thinking of me.

I didn’t have to wonder long. Underneath the letter was her journal. I hesitated, but read it. I wanted another way to dominate this woman, to know her every thought.

I did make her hot. She used “ache.” She wrote that she’d been aching for a few days now, for the first time since her husband had passed. She wrote that she wanted to ask me if the aching ever stopped.

But unless swimming is a secret word for fucking herself, she isn’t doing much about it. Does she not know how? I thought every girl did it at least once, even if the prudes gave it up for the sake of “purity.”

I secretly hope she doesn’t, and I can show her what’ s what in another way. Maybe she’s never come, and I can make her come for the first time.

I’ve come harder since, with Mr. A. and by myself, but there’s a special place in my memories for that first time out in the barn as a girl, poking and pulling and rubbing my parts with two hands and in every which way before I came out of nowhere. Ain’t never been so stunned. Ain’t never fucked myself so much as I did in the next day after that, and didn’t come so many times till Mr. A. and me’s wedding night.

Mr. A. always made sure I came, either by rubbing my pebble when we fucked, or sucking on it if he came first. Maybe Mr. B. wasn’t such a gentleman, and I could give her her first.

Already I had reached down under the bloomers with one hand, balancing the diary with the other as I sat at her dining table, one leg on the table and spread open wide. I had two fingers in my cunt — though Mrs. B. preferred “womanhood” — and my thumb was rubbing my pebble. 

Instead of images of myself fucking Mrs. B., her curling cursive words flowed through my head as I fucked myself. 

“She quivered as I washed her womanhood.” I’m sure I did.

I came for the first time reading that, but I needed more, so after letting myself cool down for a few seconds, I started at it again. My pebble was too raw, though, so I took my hand out of the bloomers and rubbed it through the fancy fabric. I had one finger on either side of the stem where my pebble meets the top of my cunt and rubbed at it a bit more lightly. Perhaps there are advantages to wearing bloomers after all.

“…the forest of hair between her legs, as wild and untouched as she is…” Why women in the city put effort into their cunt hair is beyond me. Mr. A., for his part, always liked to nestle his nose in it when he sucked at my pebble.

“Clitoris” she called it. I said that one aloud a few times, rolling it around my tongue. I suppose there’s got to be a fancy word for everything. But it’s always been my pebble. That’s the word cousin M. used for it when she told me what was what, anyhow. 

“Clitoris” is fine for city folk, but hell, I ain’t gonna use “womanhood” when I mean cunt neither, so I’ll stick with pebble. 

It’s stuck by me all right. But sometimes it ain’t quite enough. 

My fingers do me good enough on the outside, but they can’t compete with Mr. A for filling up my cunt. He warn’t no stallion, but he was plenty gifted. He had a nice enough cock to look at and feel inside. It’d stand up from his body and bend a little to the right from all those years of him hammering on it. The skin’d pull back and the tip would get all pink and shiny. Sometimes I’d spit on it and start stroking away, or just start to sucking it and licking it direct. But before too long I always wanted to feel it inside me. 

It’s funny — when I fuck myself, sure I like to put a finger or two in my cunt, but mostly it’s all about my pebble. When I was fucking him, while I needed my pebble to get rubbed to come, my mind was focused on every movement of his cock inside me. I guess a cock’s better than fingers at filling you up, at touching all those places that make you squirm and grunt and sometimes — twice or thrice by myself and only a half-dozen times with Mr. A, usually when he’d been gone in Valentine to sell steers for a week and I’d waited on him, or after my blood when we hadn’t fucked in a while — shoot out this clear, sticky stuff that felt fantastic coming out.

So usually, my pebble’s enough, or a couple fingers inside me the usual way, more there to feel the spasms than anything. But sometimes I want to be filled like that, and I ain’t got no good way to do it.

Before they got themselves lost on a desert island, I’d been thinking of asking Mr. M., just to fuck me, nothing else, every so often. Or asking A. to let me take J. off her hands for a night here and there. The walls at Shady Belle were thin, and there ain’t no walls on a tent, so we was all aware how much J. liked to fuck, and how he liked to start it and set her to giggling. 

Not that A. minded, I suppose. She could fuck J. before breakfast, go turn a trick in Annesburg, make herself come down by the riverside and still want to fuck him again before going to sleep. Not that I’m judging. I’m a woman who knows what she likes, so more power to her.

That would all be too messy though, and word gets ‘round camp fast.

I thought about going to Saint-Denis and trying to find one of them rubber cocks, but I ain’t about to spend money on a fake cock, and now I can’t be seen in Saint-Denis anyhow.

It ain’t too serious. It’s just sometimes I want to feel filled up the way I was with Mr. A. I make enough do with my fingers, when I need to. I bring four on one hand all together into the thickest collection they can make, and shove them in and bend ‘em up against the wall of my cunt the way Mr. A’s cock used to. It ain’t quite the right length, it ain’t smooth, it don’t spasm and shoot come, and it means I gotta bend my hand all sorts of ways, but it gets the job done when I need it to.

Today was one of those times. It just sorta hit me, while I was rubbing my pebble through Mrs. B.’s bloomers. I needed to be filled up. It’s funny, given when I picture fucking her I grow a cock of my own. But with her words running circles in my head, I stuffed my hand up my cunt through the fabric, wetting it and giving up all plans to keep it clean.

I wiggled my fingers around on my sweet spot inside. With my other hand I rubbed my pebble through the fine, smooth garment.

I kept to reading as I got close to coming.

“… her womanhood. It was hot, as the rest of her was, but it also glistened with liquid other than sweat.”

I came at that, and it happened again, that rare pleasure when I shoot come, well lady-come, or something like that. The bloomers took the brunt of it, but my hand was soaked. I took them off after that, and the camisole while I was at it. I ain’t much for undergarments in the best of times, even if they feel nice up against your skin. Plus they needed washing.

I put away Mrs. B.’s diary as best I could and found a washboard in her kitchen cupboard. I took it, some powdered soap, the bloomers, my clothes and a revolver down to the lake. I don’t go nowhere without a revolver, notwithstanding being a naked woman out walking alone. I didn’t expect to see no one, of course. It’s miles to the road, and not many folk come up past Brandywine Drop. The only one I could come across might’ve been Mrs. B., and I didn’t mind the idea of her seeing my in my all-togethers — again that is. Hell, she swims around in the lake, she says, so it can’t be too risky.

I swam for a bit, then did the washing. Turns out girl-come cleans out of bloomers real easy, easier than horseshit and mud from work jeans, at least.

Then I figured it was time for lunch. Had some young peas out of the garden and a little bit of salt pork. DId a little weeding in the garden, a little light carpentry around the house any way to fill my time that wasn’t fucking myself with anything to fill my mind except what I wanted to do to Mrs. B. when she came back.

It didn’t last of course. When it started getting dark I came in and got to planning. How exactly I would get Mrs. B. to let me fuck her. I felt like one of the farmhand boys that used to hang around the barn when I was a girl. They ended up with a kick to the nuts if they tried anything, and they almost always ended up hammering on their cocks alone at night, unless Cousin M. was about and amenable — and she was always amenable.

But my plans would be a lot smoother than theirs, and I was already less threatening. I started daydreaming about how I’d get Mrs. B. and what I’d do to her, and I found myself in bed again, fucking myself again. Just good old pebble rubbing this time. I came once and sat up to write this. I’m getting good at one handed writing, and I’ve come twice more putting all this down. 

I may go again once I blow out the candle, if the feeling strikes me. Not quite a new record, but close.

Hoping to make a new record with Mrs. B. tomorrow.

Fingers crossed.

Mrs. A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering again about initials: Mr. M. is of course Arthur. A. and J. are Abigail and John. Cousin M. is just a random character from Sadie's past. Think about a year or two older than her.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for using pebble for clitoris. I figured that term wasn't in general parlance for non-educated folks, and went for the word that seemed most intuitive. Also, K. and A. are Karen and Abigail, if you missed it.


End file.
